


Rewriting History

by allswellinthiswell



Series: One Piece Works || Reader Inserts [2]
Category: One Piece
Genre: Angst, Attempt at Humor, Bookworm Fushichou Marco, Bookworm Reader, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Illustrations, M/M, Mystery, Rating May Change, bear with me plz, bunch o' mysterious stuph, oh boy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:54:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23443534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allswellinthiswell/pseuds/allswellinthiswell
Summary: “Good read?” He asks, closing the distance between the counter and himself easily. Once in front of you, he gestures to it curiously. You catch the teasing tone though, feeling a blush creeping up on you.Coughing, you shrug, sliding the thing down the counter and out of your line of sight. It's still present, but at least he can't judge it or you anymore. You don't even break eye-contact.  “Oh, this? Yeah, I guess. It's... it's pretty basic, but my friend wanted me to read it, so... here I am.”Oh, boy, that's a lie if you've ever said, heard, or breathed one.------His entrance is not unlike the ones you've read about in cheesy romance novels, but what follows after is anything but.Time to rewrite history, you suppose.
Relationships: Fushichou Marco/Reader, Fushichou Marco/You
Series: One Piece Works || Reader Inserts [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1130243
Comments: 59
Kudos: 142





	1. Curious

**Author's Note:**

> Here we go!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just doing my best, here. I hope you are all safe and healthy, wherever you may be.
> 
> I'm going to try my best to get this finished! This is me trying to push myself to complete at least one story I've posted. Of course, it had to be about one of my favourite characters in this fandom. Please be patient with me :)
> 
> The writing is, in my opinion, MEH because that's exactly what I feel on most days, but I am trying. If you see that anything that looks off, please let me know and I will do my best to fix it!

Work today is slow.

Well, that's... that's not true.

Work was _always_ slow, no matter what day or month or _year_ it was. There weren't many thrills, save for special events, but those never lasted more than a day. Then, without a moment to bask in the beauty of it, it was back to your regularly scheduled peace and quietude, plucking decorations off walls and the large window in the front.

It was unlike many jobs you'd picked up, where, despite the low energy, there was at least _someone else_ present _._

So... you suppose, in the end, you're right?

...

Yeah, okay, it was slow.

And, while not inherently a terrible thing, you'd run out of apps to swipe through and you still had at least an hour until closing time.

Idly, you shift on your stool behind the counter. Your butt ached from the lack of movement, but at least you had a seat. If you had been forced to stand, you'd have left imprints of your footsteps on the floor with your constant need to pace. Because in addition to there being _nobody_ , there was also nothing else for you to do.

You'd swept and mopped the floor several times, taken stock of the books you had and didn't have, sent out overdue notices to several people, argued with some Barbara about the date... _then_ , you'd dealt with a shipment of new movies and placed them alphabetically on the shelves...

You'd done a lot.

And, while you were perfectly fine, you were bored. Sundays weren't very popular days, it seemed.

But! You weren't going to say any of this aloud. Money is money and, well, you _like_ this job despite the long stretches of absolute boredom.

You stretch, checking the time on your phone with a quick glance. Forty-five minutes.

Could you handle forty-five minutes of this?

...

You check the area conspiratorially, squinting and flicking your gaze left to right. In the distance, a crow caws noisily and cars trundle by. A sigh ghosts pasts your lips when you conclude that, yes, you are indeed alone. It never hurt to check if a customer had decided to camp in the store for a good read, however.

“No,” You whisper, answering your question from before. Rummaging through your bag, you extract a small Bluetooth speaker from within. “I cannot handle this anymore.” _Cue the music._

Happily, you pair your phone and the speaker. Pressing the play button, you smile to yourself when one of your favourite songs begins. You hop off your stool, grabbing your speaker, your phone, and the novel you also kept in your bag. If you were in a bookstore, you might as well indulge a little, right? There's an assortment of couches not too far from the counter, so if a customer does magically appear, you can always rush back to your post. No biggie. Easy.

With a hum and grin, you flop down on one of the crimson couches and settle in for a nice read. Flipping through the pages until you find your bookmark, you begin a new chapter. Admittedly, this book was not one of your best choices. It was cheesy and unrealistic, but that's what made it entertaining. You think if you tried hard enough, you could hear your boss bemoaning your choice in literature, hands raking through her grey hair.

“ _You really think that's how relationships work?”_ She'd exclaimed, your novel in her hand as she gestured wildly with the other. _“You think the person of your dreams is going to walk in and whisk you away lovingly? No! You go out there, and you_ _ **find**_ _them!”_ You shook your head, then, reclaiming your belonging and straightening it with a huff.

Of course, you don't believe what they're trying to sell you in this book. Of course not.

But your imagination never hurt anyone but yourself, so... _eh._

And so, you read, mind soaking in the words, which conjured images that adjusted accordingly the further along you went. You flipped the first page, then a second, a third... fourth...

“Really?” You mumble, well into your second chapter of the evening. “You're really not going to talk shit out like actual adults?” Shaking your head with a well-placed scoff, you focus on the next page, regrettably eager to find out if the two lovers make up.

So much so, that you miss the chiming of the bell situated above the door when it opens, nose literally buried in the book. Thankfully, you'd somehow found yourself in a position facing the entrance, so the stranger didn't go unnoticed for long.

You tear your gaze from the pages, glancing at the newcomer over the edge of the hardcover. When you two make awkward eye contact, you sit up with a sharp inhale and a yelp, snapping the book shut audibly.

“Sorry!” You call, hurrying behind the counter. The man watches you the entire time, wearing a neutral expression that only worsens your sudden surge of anxiety. Clearing your throat, you speak, “Sorry, I, _sheesh_ , I- how may I help you?” Smiling sheepishly, you splay your hands on the hard surface for support, both emotional and physical. “Sir?”

The blond man blinks, observing you for a solid three seconds before chuckling softly. The evening sun filtering through the skylight above pools in his blue eyes, revealing the mirth shining in them. His gaze flits down to the book beside you, struggling to read the loopy writing of the title. The fact you'd brought it with is one you realize a second too late.

“Good read?” He asks, closing the distance between the counter and himself easily. Once in front of you, he gestures to it curiously. You catch the teasing tone though, feeling a blush creeping up on you.

Coughing, you shrug, sliding the thing down the counter and out of your line of sight. It's still present, but at least he can't analyze judge it _or_ you anymore. You don't even break eye-contact. “Oh, this? Yeah, I guess. It's... it's pretty basic, but my friend wanted me to read it, so... here I am.”

Oh, boy, that's a lie if you've ever said, heard, and breathed one.

The man hums, studying your face. He's sizing you up, you think, or perhaps considering calling you out on your nonsense. You appraise him right back, taking note of his laid-back outfit, which consists of a worn pair of jeans and a plain white shirt. There's a light jacket draped on the bag slung across his broad chest.

Apparently, he had other plans. “You certainly seemed interested in it.”

So, dancing around the truth it is. Will you be able to backtrack out of this conversation safely, or will you cave to his obvious attempts at embarrassing you?

Who will win, you wonder?

You shake your head with a laugh. He raises an eyebrow expectantly. Yeah, he knew you were full of it. “Oh, well, you know.” No, he doesn't know. Keep talking. “My friend bullied me into reading it. We're going to share our thoughts on it tomorrow when we meet up.” God, that's... that's _bad_.

Again, he hums, this time with a solemn nod that loses its effect when he smiles. “Anything you would like to share with a fellow reader?”

“That apparently this author thinks that a man's only source of motivation is the loss of the most boring female lead you will ever find?” You blurt, resting your elbows on the counter. “Or that the only way to write a relationship is to have both people butt heads constantly? Or, you know, having both of them break up out of the blue at the end so you buy the sequel to see if they make up?”

The man tilts his head at you, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. His ever-present smile widens when you bite your lip, stifling a giggle and failing miserably. Oh, the shame.

“ _Okay,_ okay! You got me.” You declare dramatically, facepalming. Sliding your hand down the side of your face, you announce, “Guilty as charged.”

“Interesting.” He continues nodding as if truly intrigued. “Perhaps I'll give it a chance.”

“Ugh,” You groan, “Save yourself the money. It's high-quality garbage and we both know it. I only borrowed it because I was curious.” You share a good laugh at that. Yours sounds horribly loud compared to his, but there's echoing in this place, so you don't let it bother you too much. “ _Anyway_ , if we're done judging my taste in books... what can I help you with?”

The man straightens, blinking as if he'd just remembered what he was doing. “Ah, right.” He reaches into a pocket and carefully hands you a folded up piece of paper. You accept it, jokingly sending him a _Look._ You make a show of examining it as if it were poisonous somehow and, satisfied with his chortling, unfold it and read the several titles written on it.

“Huh...” Tracing one of the titles with your finger, you muse to yourself. “I'm pretty sure we have most of these somewhere...” All of them were history related and, while not the most popular, you still had a few copies of them. You look around, locating the section labelled 'history', trying to discern if they were truly there.

“Is that so?” He asks, halting your train of thought. You smile at him.

“Yep!” You hand him his list, which he tucks into his pocket once more. Rounding the counter, you lead him in the direction of his request. “We should have them out here, but if not, I'm sure there are at least a few copies tucked away somewhere.”

You pause in front of the enormous shelf housing the first of the novels, remembering the title. _Edward Newgate, The Strongest Man in the World._ Slowly walking down the aisle, you repeat the name in your head as you slide a finger down the books' spines. When you see the name in shiny gold writing, you tap it gently. “Here we are...”

Smiling at the blond, you gesture for him to take it, giving him room. He nods, expression as blank as a sheet of paper as he grabs it without another word. The man holds it in both hands as he reads the summary printed on the back, then, gingerly, rubs a hand on the cover. You can't place the emotions that cross his face. They come and go too quickly for you to really tell. It's bemusing enough for you to feel the need to pry, but you refrain from doing so. It was really none of your business.

“Would you like help finding the rest?” You offer instead, pointing to the novel. “You did have quite the list, there.”

“That would be great.” He grins, tucking the book under his arm. You set to work, remembering at least two other books on that list. You are about to head into the next aisle when he speaks up again, stopping you in your tracks. “Thank you.”

Pausing, you lean around the tall shelf and send him a mock salute. “Just doin' my job, sir.” With that, you add, “I'll look for the ones on the One Piece and the Whitebeard Pirates. They shouldn't be too far.”

You disappear quickly, curiosity adding a spring to your step as you repeat the same process. _The One Piece_ is an easy one, what with its easy title and obnoxiously colourful cover, and so is the other one. You have more copies of regarding the Whitebeard Pirates, and, surprisingly, the Strawhat Pirates. If your memory serves you right, you remember the summary describing them as _chaotic_.

A glance at the cover and... yeah, you kind of agree. It looks right out of a movie. Did people like them even exist anymore?

“Sir?” You call, walking back with both books. There's a muffled _'yes?'_ in the distance and you follow the voice, finding him without trouble. He's crouched low with three books at his side, but straightened when you presented him with the rest.

“Thank you.” He accepts them from you with care, inspecting them and ensuring they are the right ones.

“No problem.” You sigh, rubbing your arms and bouncing a little in your spot. It was getting cold here. “Can I help you find anything else?”

“No, no,” He replies quickly, placing them on top of his pile. It was a good thing they were relatively small. You don't think they can all fit in his bag, but at least he can carry some of them and still see. You'd had one too many accidents with books thicker than your arm. “This is all of them. Thank you.”

“All righty, then.” You pass him, leading the way back to the counter so he can complete his purchase. He trails after you, mumbling something you don't quite catch. Probably just reading the books.

Once you are back in your post, you confirm that, yes, he was reading. His eyebrows are knitted as he places them on the marble surface, eyes lingering on the one about Whitebeard. You pretend not to notice and scan them all. After six _beeps_ and a few moments to type in the required information, you bag his purchase and give him his receipt.

“And...” _Rip_. You throw the unnecessary paper in the trash by you, remembering what you're supposed to say after the repetitive process. “That is _that_. Thank you for shopping at Book Bank. Do you need anything else?”

“No, thank you very much...” Your lips stretch into a big grin when he reads your nametag, testing out your name. You glance down at the worn plastic then back at him, shrugging.

“No problem, uh...”

“Marco.” He extends a hand towards you. “Marco Newgate.”

You freeze, blinking stupidly as your brain struggles to process what he just said.

“ _Ohhhh..._ ”

It seems he was anticipating your reaction because he doesn't look the least bit offended or confused. In fact, he still looks mighty amused. You recover swiftly, shaking his hand firmly with a giggle. “Sorry. That makes sense, though. It's very nice to meet you, Marco.”

“Likewise.” You feel giddy at learning this new information for some reason. Likely because nobody really wakes up one day knowing they're going to meet a descendant of a historical figure. Unless, they really aren't related, which is highly unlikely considering his behaviour when faced with the book.

You spend a minute studying his face. Aside from concluding that he was handsome, there's not much similarity aside, well... maybe the eyes? You can't really tell, but eh, whatever. Whitebeard was a historical figure and you're living in the modern era. That's not a big surprise.

“Guess I'll be heading out, now.” He declares, having done the exact same thing to you. You feel a spark of self-consciousness at his scrutiny, hoping you don't look horrible. Marco bows his head respectfully as he retreats towards the doorway, leaving you to wave. “Thank you, again.”

“Have a good rest of your day!” You call as he exits. He doesn't look back.

...

...

Consider your curiousity piqued.


	2. Visit

It had been a week and Marco hadn't returned since that Friday.

Usually, you wouldn't have paid so much attention to a customer, descendant of a historical figure or not, but you felt... drawn to him. You think. There's an itch that lingers in the deepest recesses of your mind, urging you to find out more. Stifling it by busying yourself with other matters doesn't help, either.

There was _something_ about him sparked a bottomless curiosity within you and a _need_ to find out more.

But you can't. Marco wasn't a book you could find online with a few well-placed words and a couple of clicks.

You'd tried, actually. He had no social media. Not even a Facebook.

And so, here you were. It was your second time closing the store and you were hoping for him to show. Even if it did seem impossible, considering the numerous books he'd purchased. If you were to be trusted, you'd guess he's serious about reading, so it might take him a while to come back. _If_ he does.

But... why would he come back? He'd _bought_ what he needed from the bookstore, not borrowed it. You've yet to wrap your mind around that little factor regarding your job. Your boss had made this building into a strange combination of both a library and bookstore. You didn't know how she managed it all, but she did.

People could borrow whatever was available, and if they truly wanted it for their own, they could return and purchase it. It was... odd, to say the least. But she claimed there was a reason for it, one you don't remember, so you don't bother questioning it. If only people would return items on time. You wouldn't spend unnecessary periods of time arguing with a bunch of Karens .

Alas, there was really nothing you could do. Neither about the tardiness of certain individuals and the mysterious Marco.You knew next to nothing about the man aside from his connection to Whitebeard himself. The most you could do was hope that he would come by and buy something else.

But... where to go from there?

Idly, you tap a pencil on the counter, chin nestled in your hand and elbow propped on the counter. You conjure a thousand different scenarios in your mind, but well... many stray from reality. Most head in the same direction as that stupid book, considering his overall looks and demeanor.

 _...C'est la vie,_ you suppose.

The bell above the door chimes.

You tear your gaze away from the computer, the rhythmic tapping of your pencil ceasing...

...and smile at the elderly woman, rising from your stool to greet her properly.

(x)

“So, how may I be of assistance, ma'am?” Marco asks smoothly, his practiced, easy-going attitude placating the jittery woman sitting in the chair. She'd already visited the clinic several times, rubbing her hands together and leg bouncing nervously.

“It's my leg.” She states simply, and then, with a good-natured huff, adds, “Well, _this_ one, not that one.” Her left leg stops moving as she gestures to the right one, sending him an attempt at a half-grin. Marco chuckles, stepping away from the door and placing his clipboard down on the desk nearby. He motions for her to move to the examination table, offering her a hand. Carefully, she accepts it, limping to the table.

When she sits down, he grabs the other chair in the room – one with wheels so he can move around with ease – and studies her leg.

“Well, let's see what I can do to help.” He murmurs, eyes narrowing thoughtfully.

The woman nods, letting him work in silence. The only noise is the rustling of the paper beneath her and his own voice as he instructs her to do this and that.

She was growing old, he noted, feeling a spark of deja vu in his chest. That, and the constant stabs of pain as he remembers. He makes her stretch her leg out several times, testing her mobility. When he tells her that he is going to pull and she needs to resist, she sucks in a deep breath. Marco pulls on her leg and presses on the back of her knee, closing his eyes. The woman makes a noise of complaint in the back of her throat as the muscles under his fingers tense.

Then she stops.

Leaning back, he massages her knee, allowing the limb to extend completely.

“There.” He allows her leg to slip from his grasp, smiling up at the woman. “How do you feel?”

Confusion crosses her features, deepening the wrinkles around her brows and eyes. She frowns, pushing herself off the table. The woman walks around the room tentatively, like a fawn becoming acquainted with its own body. Marco observes from his seat as her expression clears, giving way to shock, then elation.

“I feel fine.” She says, bewildered, letting out a little laugh. “I don't know what you did, but it doesn't hurt anymore.”

Marco grins, “That's good to hear. Is there anything else troubling you today, ma'am?”

They share a few pleasantries after she claims that she feels a-okay, her fears and worries vanishing with her pain. He tucks his clipboard under his arm, opens the door for her, and guides her to the entrance.

“And if your leg hurts again for whatever reason, please do come back.” The woman nods eagerly, assuring him that she will and that he is a _lovely_ doctor. He bows his head at the praise, chuckling, and pushes his glasses farther up his nose. “Just doing my job, ma'am, but thank you.”

Vaguely, after waving farewell once more, he hears the secretary ask: “So, you did it again?”

Shrugging, he answers with one of his smiles, returning to his job.

(x)

“That'll be $25.95, sir.” You press a few buttons, meeting the man's eyes. “Will that be cash, or...” He answers your question by waving a credit card, and you nod, handing him the machine. There's a few seconds of awkward silence, a long _beep_ , and then the encounter is nearly finished. You slide the bag with his books across the counter, lips quirking up. “You have a nice day, sir.”

“You too.”

And then he's gone.

You sigh.

It's only natural that what you hope is your last customer is a bit rude.

Gingerly, you rub your aching shoulder and grimace. It's sad, but those couches weren't all that kind to your body once you sit on them for a few hours. Then again, you do contort your body into ridiculous positions once you get into a story, too busy reading to notice your legs falling asleep.

There's not much to do in the store, _surprisingly_ , so you crack open your very romantic, horribly written piece of actual literary garbage and read. You don't move from your stool, hunching over slightly and propping an elbow on the counter. Your boss had gotten on your case this week for slacking off after she found you lounging, and you didn't want to go through _that_ again. Her lectures could be brutal, but she loved you. At least, you hoped.

You crawl your way through the rising action, where there is a third character introduced and, _gasp,_ the man has to, oh _god,_ catch up with this person. But, wait, if you squint hard enough, you see that the childhood friend is a better match for the male protagonist. Ah, but the female lead is jealous, so that's not really a good idea.

As it turns out, the childhood friend has always had a crush on the male protagonist. The man now has to pick between someone that is actually human and the female lead with a severe case of _“I'm not like the other girls”._ Who will he choose?

Oh, look at that, he chooses the friend. That's a new one, isn't it?

Unless...

“ _Ugh._ ”

...nope, that doesn't last long. Turns out both the childhood friend and the female lead _knew_ each other, and the friend was a bully! Now there's no way the male lead can remain with that character.

“I see it just keeps getting better.”

You freeze, your disgusted expression melting away in record time as you look up at the entrance.

Lo and behold, the man of the hour. _And_ he has one of the books with him.

“Welcome back!” You start on instinct, then, realizing he'd made a joke, nod along seriously. “And, yeah, absolutely. My, uh, my friend and I are having a blast going through this thing.”

“I'm sure you are.” Marco states, smiling, allowing the door to swing shut behind him. You get the urge to glare at the little bell above the door as if it personally wronged you, but don't. Is your hearing really that bad?

“Well, well,” You catch a glimpse of the cover and realize it's the one about the Whitebeard Pirates. “Here to return the book, then?” Marco shakes his head, which is a mild surprise, considering it hasn't been that long since his purchase. It must show on your face, because he inhales and rubs the back of his neck almost... sheepishly.

“I quite like this place.” He says, and you, curious, arch an eyebrow, urging him to continue. “I'd like to read here, if that's not an issue.”

“ _Oh!_ ” You laugh, feeling stupid for not realizing sooner. “Yeah, that's not a problem.”

Marco nods, thanks you, and with a quick scan of the room, heads over to the couch you'd occupied on the day of your first meeting. You watch him as he goes, feeling both giddy and disappointed. He's back, sure, but you don't want to be a bother.

And besides, ignoring the fact that you're on the job, what would you even talk about?

You sigh to yourself. The man is here to read, so you shall leave him to do it. With this in mind, you decide to check the aisles to see what needs to be stocked up again. You'd sold quite a few books in the kids section lately, especially the fantasy one. You make a list in your head while subtly checking on Marco, almost tip-toeing around the area.

He shifts, eyebrow furrowing briefly as he tries to find a comfortable position to sit in, rubbing his neck.

... _you're being creepy._

Okay, so maybe, you... won't... do that. Maybe.

No, you won't. There's quite a few books that need to be put out again and you need whatever brain cells you've got left. You sneak into the storage room, put off by the idea of disturbing Marco now that he's so obviously settled.

Checking the time, you note that you close the shop in three hours. You wonder how long he plans to stay... and banish the hope of him staying the entire time.

With a soft hum, you crack one of the books open and make it stand so that its title is visible on the low shelf. You separate the pages, ensure that they are all evenly spaced, and nod to yourself when it stays. Filling up the rest of the vacant shelves, you walk past the couch area to check the rest of them.

“That's... wrong.”

You stop, nearly tripping over your own feet, and glance behind you.

Marco stares at his novel like it had personally wronged him. Wordlessly, he shuts it, using his thumb to mark his page, and reads the author's name out loud. You bite back a laugh, sidling up to him.

“Are you sure you don't want to return it?” You ask.

“No, of course not.” Marco smiles before turning to you, chortling. You peer at the cover, reading the author's name. “It's just... this crew wasn't like that, back then.”

“Oh?” You sit on the arm of another couch, waiting for him to elaborate. Marco opens the book again, shrugging and sighing. He almost looks _embarrassed_ when he points to a certain paragraph, offering you the novel, but you can't really tell. You read it, pretending to see what's wrong with it and sincerely hoping he explains.

He does, surprising you.

“Each division had its job.” He carries on, huffing, pushing his glasses further up his nose. Something in the air shifts as Marco voices the rest of his thoughts, icy blue eyes faraway. “It wasn't just because there was a large crew; each division carried out certain tasks. You weren't assigned to a division and expected to live life like any other crew. There was a system to it all.”

“Huh,”

Your voice snaps him out of his reverie. He closes his eyes, shaking his head.

“My apologies.” He says, meeting your amused gaze with his own. “Didn't mean to ramble.”

“No, no, it's fine!” You wave your hands, lips quirking into a huge grin. “I've never been one for history, but what you said sounds super interesting! Sorry the author didn't do his research, though.”

“Yeah,” Marco reads the author's name. Shrugging again, he heaves, “What can you do, though.”

...

He looks sad.

“You...” You clear your throat when his eyes drift upwards again. They're so... bright, it's striking and enough to root you in your spot, words dying on the tip of your tongue. Weakly, you finish, “...you could re-write it?”

Marco blinks, eyebrows rising as his brain registers what you just said. Was... was he expecting you to say something else?

“If you want, you know!” You stammer on, rubbing the back of your neck. “I mean, you're probably busy and whatnot, but... you know! If you're really related to Whitebeard, you could... tell these people they're wrong?”

_Oh god, please shut up._

“Huh,”

You chuckle nervously. “Sorry, I probably shouldn't have said that?”

“No, it's... it's not a bad idea.” He says, rubbing his chin with his fingers as he thinks. Slowly, his lips curl into a smile. “I would have to make the time for it, but... hm. Not a bad idea, at all.” Both of you chuckle, and you feel relieved that you hadn't said the wrong thing.

“You could even use the computers here, right now, if you'd like to get started.” You tilt your head at him.

Marco nods, obviously amused by the entire situation, but also oddly serious. “I'll have to consider it, but... well, thank you, [name].”

You send him a thumbs up, standing up from the arm of the couch and getting back to work.

Whatever awkwardness you felt around him, you don't feel now, guiding him to the computers and letting him do his own thing. When you check the time again, you are delighted to see that he has at least another hour to pour his thoughts into a document.

“Make sure you can access it from home, as well!” You add before leaving.

“Ah,” Marco smiles, nodding his head. “Thank you.”

You shrug, hiding your reddening cheeks and say, “Just doing my job.”


	3. Writing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit shorter than the other two, but eh! I hope you enjoy, anyway.

Gradually, his visits become a common occurrence.

He comes to your little bookstore, entering with a smile and a polite nod. You talk about the book you're reading, clinging to the lie that had toppled out of your mouth on that first day. It's ridiculous, really. Such an atrocious book and yet you become invested in the conversation, poking fun at the writing and the development of the relationship.

Marco listens attentively, head tilting to the side and providing his own jabs at the story with ease. More than once, you've had to cover up a snort with a cough, hand pressed to your mouth to cover it up.

Talking to him is laughably easy. You're thankful he comes in later in the evening on most days of the week when things settle down. You don't want to assume, but you both seem to unwind and let the tension wash away when you do.

That's what you tend to experience, anyway. Marco is a tough one to read. His face is the only clue you get to gauge his mood, his body giving away next to nothing. Sure, he gestures and waves his hands when talking, but not much else.

During one of those visits, you catch your boss squinting at the two of you in your peripheral. You almost want to tell her to be careful – after all, she's always complaining about the wrinkles around her eyes. But, then again, she never did appreciate that... even though she tells _you_ to tell _her._

While talking, you lean forward on the counter and raise your voice a little, hoping that Marco doesn't notice your audience. It's the one time you're thankful for the creaky floor under your feet.

Later, you're walking towards a set of bookshelves when she grabs you by the collar and yanks you into her hiding spot, whispering, “Who is _that_?”

You blink, staring at the old woman with wide eyes. Her glasses are low on her nose, something you'd pointed out several times, but to no avail. You swear they're going to fall off one day. Leaning back with your hands raised, you chortle awkwardly, the sounds trailing off when she shushes you.

Letting your arms fall to your side, you sigh, smiling. “That's just... Marco. Marco Newgate.”

“ _Newgate_ , you say?” She asks, crossing her arms. She pokes her head out and stares at the blond reading his book innocently. “Never would have expected that.”

“I know, right?” You gently tug her back. “Like... you typically only see these people online on- on articles or... _something_. It's cool, huh?”

“Yeah, yeah,” She waves you off. “You like him, okay.”

“I do,” You agree easily. She sends you a look, emotions you can't quite place in her eyes, but she walks away before you can ask.

She doesn't comment on the matter any further, leaving you be as you and Marco chat. You bring up the writing often, hoping that he hasn't quit on his book. Apparently, it is also coming along.

“I will admit...” You're sorting through your own paperwork at the counter when he speaks, louder than you've ever heard him. He's at one of the computers, his document opened in front of him. Checking that there's nobody else in the store enjoying a book, you sidle up to him, eyes on his face. While he doesn't hide what he's working on, you don't want to overstep. You sure wouldn't want anyone reading what you write... well, not yet.

Blue eyes move to meet yours when you enter his line of sight. “I don't usually sit down and write like this.”

“You've tried before?” You ask, reaching behind you for a chair and sitting down.

“Yes,” He scratches the back of his neck, motioning to his screen. You take this as an invitation to read part of it. So far, he seems to be writing an introduction about Whitebeard himself. The title is simple: _His Dream._

“Have you?” Marco asks, dragging your attention back to him. Straightening your spine, you inhale deeply, feeling your cheeks go a little red. “With how much you read, I'd assume so.”

"You assume correctly,” You reply shyly, shrugging a little. “But, like you, it's not much...”

He arches an eyebrow, his glasses low on his nose. Marco reminds you of your university teachers, with his pristine appearance and the glasses. Except, he's more eloquent and far kinder than any of them had been.

That observation doesn't shake the need to push. Them. Up.

What is with people and their tendency to wear them like that? It's not like glasses are cheap!

You huff, hands wringing in your lap as you cast your gaze to the side. “Okay, I write.” Then, when there's only more silence, you relent, “...A lot.”

“Any particular genre?” He chuckles, turning back to his document. Marco flexes his fingers, hands hovering of the keyboard, then sets to typing. The tapping of the keys is familiar and soothing. It reminds you of the evenings you used to spend writing, words appearing on your screen at lightning speed after a burst of inspiration.

“Guess,” You say cheekily, studying his profile. Marco finally hikes his glasses up his nose and squints at the screen, pausing briefly. You turn to the document as well, your interest getting the better of you.

“Hmm,” He carries on. “Fiction.”

“Correct.” You take note of a paragraph that stands out to you and read it over again. “I've always been drawn to fantasy.”

“And romance?” He asks, tone light and teasing. You laugh despite the embarrassment you feel at the harmless joke. Rolling your eyes, you shrug helplessly.

“That, too.”

“Ever thought of publishing anything?” Marco asks suddenly, jumping back a couple of sentences and editing them.

“Never gave it much thought, to be honest.” You shift in your seat, pretending to check your nails.

“That's fair.” He says, then, with a smile, points to the paragraph you'd been scrutinizing earlier. “What do you think of this so far?”

You lean closer, eyes skimming the words, though this time, you organize your thoughts and formulate an actual opinion.

“Before that, do you have a draft made?” You ask, facing him again. “You know what you want to include?” Marco blinks, then nods, grinning at you. You heave a sigh of relief. At least, he's got that step down and conquered. That had been a hard lesson for you to learn when you had started out. “Well, I think... You have your title, right?”

“His dream,” He says.

...

There it is.

Now that you're much closer, you can see that it's a deep, deep sadness that clouds his eyes, stealing their glow. It's a subtle change – Marco's whole shtick is subtlety, it seems – but you don't miss it. Not again.

“...Right.” You rub your chin, eyebrows pinched in thought.

“Well, this... _really_ isn't my area of expertise.” You say nervously. Marco shakes his head, not at all minding that you _might just_ ruin his book. “Uh... well, maybe – and this is just a suggestion – uh, maybe try making it more... flowy?”

'Flowy?” He reads his paragraph, mouthing some of the words. “Care to explain?”

“Hm, well, what I mean is...” You reduce the distance between you two to get a better look at the screen. “You've got some good stuff going on. It's just... it feels a bit... impersonal?”

“Like a medical report, you might say?”

“Oh, I wouldn't go that far but...” After considering it for a beat, you realize that, yes, it's just like one of those. “Yes. It feels like a report.”

Marco hums, fingers pressed to his chin.

“But!” You say, halting his train of thought, “If that's what you want to go for, I think it's perfectly fine. As I said, I'm not an expert.”

“You just think it could be flowier.” He clarifies, earning an eager nod from you. The corners of his lips quirk as he fights a toothy smile. You were so nervous to share your opinion. “Okay. I see what you mean.”

Marco keeps his eyes on the screen, ignoring the curiosity that flares in his mind when you obviously relax.

Silence reigns after that. You quietly leave him to his work, feeling proud of yourself for helping but also jittery. If he _did_ publish this book, you didn't want it to go under because of you! What if you make a suggestion that doesn't fit the style and it backfires? You'd feel terrible.

Still, as you struggle to slow your heartbeat, you can't help but admire his writing. The level of detail and skill overall is something to admire. And it seemed so purposeful, too. Not like those cringy, over-the-top drabbles you used to dish out in your teenage years.

Then again, you _were_ a teenager back then.

 _Okay,_ you think, _give yourself a break._

Well, you _would_ , but you'd spent a long time with Marco and you didn't want to slack off too much. You don't want to face your boss' wrath – not today, or any day, really.

(x)

“Thank you for your help, today.” Marco sends you a glance full of gratitude, holding the door to the Book Bank. You shake your head, waving your hands furiously, cheeks a little rosy. When will he stop saying that?

“I didn't do that much, really!”

...Probably when you stop denying it.

Damn it, just accept his thanks, already!

Head cocked to the side, he studies you for a moment, then releases an airy laugh. “Well, I'll be seeing you around, then.” _Ugh... okay, missed that opportunity._

“See you, Marco.” You reply, rubbing your arm. “You be safe walking home, okay?”

Marco bows his head. “Always.”

And, when you think he's going to let go of the door and leave, he says with a certain finality, “Thank you.”

This time, you return his grin with a shy, little smile, stomach doing flips. Of course, he would give it one more try. Placing your hand on the glass door so that he can step outside, you nod, responding with newfound confidence.

“No problem, Marco.” You linger, searching the sidewalk for... for who knows what, really. What is your stomach even _doing_? “Good night,”

“Good night.”

And with your name ghosting past his lips one last time, he goes, moving like the slow crawl of winter. His footsteps echo in the silent street, bag tucked close to his body. You inhale deeply, eyes on his back, then shiver at the chill seeping into your limbs.

As you clean and close the store for the night, you can't help the twitching of your fingers. You itch for your laptop, the need to write heavy on your mind as you make your way home. It's not often the flickering flame of inspiration rages this passionately, so you hurry, chasing the feeling well into the ungodly hours of the morning.

And, while you do struggle once you sit down, you manage to write a small drabble.

You hadn't been able to do that in months.

...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like, you can visit my Tumblr to see more of my art: https://allswellinthiswell.tumblr.com :)


	4. Man of the Hour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to just... get this out there. Sorry for any mistakes you may find. 
> 
> We're getting a bit more complicated, here.

_ His Dream – A Biography of Edward Newgate by  _ _Marco Newgate_

* * *

“ _It doesn't matter who brought you into this world. All humans are sons and daughters of the sea.” - Edward Newgate._

* * *

→ _Who was Whitebeard?_

_A father, a bastard, a friend to many, and one of the most influential pirates of his age and the subsquential one. While still a fearsome pirate, this is what most considered Edward Newgate, the strongest man in the world, to be. There were many things this man treasured: cheap food, rum, and family. His love and appreciation for all of these, despite the obvious health concerns regarding the first two, never, ever faltered._

_This was the man known as the King of the Seas._

_This was, is, and forever will be, the man known as Whitebeard._

...

...

Marco sat back in his chair with a heavy _thump_ and an even heavier sigh. He didn't need to look at the screen anymore, the words on them carved into his brain as he mulled them over... _again_.

When you'd mentioned a need for more flow, he hadn't thought much of it. He actually agreed with you, and so decided to put that into practice as soon as he got home. But, after writing reports as a commander and then who knew how many years of wandering endlessly... he was rusty.

 _Very_ much so.

It's not like he hadn't touched a pen or paper while exploring the changing world. In fact, he had a bookshelf dedicated to the journals he'd amassed. His job as a doctor in Whitebeard's home island had also forced him to write things down.

But, eventually, after shouldering the weight of it all – the sadness, the grief, the _regret_ – for so long, he took off. Even then, as he explored the world, visited old friends, and sketched the sights he was witness to, he filled many journals. After the seventh, though, he found it almost... pointless to continue.

He didn't know why, really. There were many things to write about, so he'd never run out of material or inspiration.

And yet, slowly, he gave up on writing. Sure, he picked it up when he discovered something that wasn't quite there before, but his thoughts? His feelings? His observations?

...

That could explain why he was so rusty.

On top of that, when his crew officially disbanded and he had time, he'd watched over Luffy. There was no need for intervention, not when it came to the King of Pirates, but he'd gather the bounty posters, the newspapers, and the gossip. Then, when his work allowed, he'd bring it to Ace's grave. There, years after the war, he met Sabo. He too had decided to keep his late brother updated. And, more often than not, they contacted one another when Luffy bested a powerful enemy or there'd been an update to his bounty. If one couldn't visit the graves, the other would take the information and do so.

That had been less taxing than sorting the bottomless pool that contained his emotions. It passed the time and brought a semblance of joy. Seeing the young boy that had fought tooth and nail at the war grow into one of the most powerful individuals had been fulfilling.

Then everyone died.

The Strawhats, what remained of his own crew, the Revolutionary Army. And, notably, though it took a much longer time, the World Nobles and their tyranny also fell from grace. Islands and civilizations disappeared from maps while others arose.

And now, despite the many aspects of the world that he knew were still _here_ , everything was... different. Drastically so.

With a soft grunt, he ensured that his progress had been saved (didn't want to make _that_ mistake again...) and closed the document.

Admittedly, the idea of writing a biography on Whitebeard and his crew when there was just so much to cover had been daunting. He wanted to write about everyone, from the fiery brat that brought so much life to the ship, to the cook who ensured the crew had been fed accordingly, to those that lingered in the background. Those that helped from the shadows. The cogs that, to the untrained eye, were insignificant though were just as important as the major ones.

There was _so much_ he wanted to include. And, really, there was absolutely no need to rush. If not in this book, he could always write about the rest of the crew in another one.

Sure, it was a daunting task. However, he'd given it some more thought and...

Well, here he was. Trying to make things more _flowy_ , as you had said.

 _Besides_ , he thought, _it's time._

He glanced at the clock, the bright red numbers taunting him as they changed in front of his eyes. Instead of 3:54 am, it was now 3:55 am. The most lovely of hours to be awake, really. Marco wouldn't have it any other way.

_It's time._

Shaking his head and blinking his dry eyes, he snapped his laptop shut and dragged his tired body to his bed. He was exhausted and today had been especially hard on him. It was one of those days where every minute detail reminded him of home and his family. The hushed chatter at the clinic, the smell of coffee as a secretary walked past, that new report to read...

No matter how he looked at it, he saw the Moby Dick and heard the whispers of the ocean. He saw the cooks handing coffee to those that couldn't bear the thought of a day without it. Instead of a black, pencil skirt and a white blouse, he saw pink uniforms and heard the nurses' hushed laughter. The words on his screen morphed into the expenses of that month and what needed to be replaced and restocked.

All in all, it was maddening.

He was just grateful his brain hadn't decided to delve into _those_ memories.

Marco could handle it, though. After the fall of Whitebeard, it had been his duty. Both as a commander – a title he never quite abandoned – and a captain. However, it certainly didn't mean he enjoyed the pain they harboured.

Stretching with a stifled groan, he stared up at the ceiling, hands on his stomach and legs dangling off the edge of the bed.

He didn't bother with the covers that night, closing his eyes and letting sleep whisk him away. On the cusp of unconsciousness, he thinks of you.

 _"More flowy..._ "He mumbled.

(x)

...

Was it weird?

Lips pursed, you tap your arm with your pen, keeping an ear out for the kids roaming the store. Arms resting on the shopping cart, you check your surroundings, ensuring that you're not disturbing anyone. When all seems fine and well, you turn to your list, humming thoughtfully.

_Man of the Hour._

It'd come to you as you went about your business, crossing things off your shopping list. Unsurprisingly, your thoughts had somehow strayed off their usual path and to Marco as you passed the fruit section. You'd been comparing prices of a few apples, debating what you should purchase when _whoosh._ There he was again, kicking anything related to shopping out of your brain.

Not that you minded.

...You did not mind at _all_.

Not when you were suddenly hit with a shiny, sparkly, and very new _idea._ Oh boy. How often did that happen these days?

Answer: not very.

And, you know, you were coming to terms with that until those four words pushed their way to the forefront of your mind and... ah, _there's_ your train of thought again.

Was it _weird?_

Would it be weird to write about Marco?

You'd known the guy for less than a month, for goodness' sakes. And while you wouldn't consider each other good friends, there was something there. Sure, you'd suggested the idea of writing to him, but he was under no obligation to _show you_ anything. And yet... he did. That meant that he at least tolerated your presence.

Right?

As a writer, that meant a _lot_ to you, so...

Your shoulders slump as you prop your elbow on the handle of your cart. Your chin finds its place in your palm moments later. Folding the paper in half, you think some more.

Maybe it was weird. Maybe it wasn't. You didn't really know.

What you _did_ know, though, was that you _wanted_ to write about Marco and that you were going to do it. Who wouldn't want to when he was so darn _mysterious_? He's a descendant of a historical figure that shaped today's society, knowledgeable, interesting... plus, Marco is fun. It was silly, but he'd become the highlight of your work days.

The man is a walking book waiting to be written, really.

So, yes, perhaps it was weird. But, he didn't need to know and you weren't going to share it with him. Not... not yet, at least. Obviously, if you were ever to publish it somewhere, you'd have to inform him and ask permission.

Unless... you kept his name hidden. And it didn't even have to be a _novel_. You knew you didn't have the drive to pursue such a feat, not now. A little blurb or a poem would do, though.

Smiling to yourself, you decide to finish your grocery shopping, ideas bouncing in your head. Three young boys, snickering and giggling, rush past you. One blond, the other two dark-haired and very similar in appearance. Their mother, hot on their heels, offers you an apologetic smile. You send her one that you hope is reassuring and make room for her, saying, “Don't worry about it.”

Pressing your index finger to your lips as you grab a few cans of food, you sigh.

 _Nothing serious,_ you think, _just a little drabble or two._

That would do.

(x)

It has been another two weeks.

You hadn't completed the drabble, having depleted your inspiration quicker than desired. Even so, you refused to give up.

“Regretting it yet?” You ask one chilly evening, eying the sky through the windows as you finish with his latest purchase. Large, grey clouds rolled along the sky lazily, promising rain. A gale swept through the trees lining the street, leaves rustling noisily and branches bending. Autumn was going to hit the city hard this year, it seemed. Not that you minded.

Marco's chuckle is weary as he accepts his newest book, sliding his glasses up his nose, “Are you saying I will?”

You shake your head, grinning at him. Oh, god, your heart is going to bruise your ribcage with how hard it starts beating. _Shouldn't have said that!_ “No, no, of course not.” Then, weakly, you add, “It's just a little joke of mine.”

“I know,” Marco says your name, voice laced with amusement as he tucks the book into his bag. When it's all closed up, he adds, “Start a new project, then struggle to complete it for who knows what reason?”

“Yeah,” You nod, “Then, you run out of fumes and _yadda yadda_... you know?”

“Yes,” He chortles again, exhaling a sigh when it trails off. “I've had to contend with that before. But, no, I'm not regretting it. It's been nice, actually, being able to put it all down on paper.”

You open your mouth to reply when his expression changes, his eyebrows furrowing. Marco takes his wording into consideration, remembering that he's not writing the novel on actual paper. Then, with a good-natured shrug, waves his hands as if to say ' _you know what I mean'_. You nod, not quite immune to that kind of slip up yourself.

...

...It did unearth a few questions about his age, you think.

“That's good to hear,” You say earnestly, genuinely happy for him and his success so far. You'd had to ask how old he was another day. “The idea of publishing it must be exciting, too. I mean, you're going to embarrass a whole lot of people when you finish it. Especially _that_ author.”

Marco pauses, pondering this, and shrugs as his lips stretch into a smile bordering on smug. Then, with his whole chest and absolutely no remorse, he states, “Oh, well.”

You don't know what you were expecting from him, honestly. On one hand, that response was fitting for his character. On the other, you thought he'd be a _little_ sorry.

His reply prompts a loud guffaw out of you, one you thought you had under control. Slapping a hand over your mouth, you stare at him with wide eyes, cheeks tingling. No doubt they were reddening. Contrary to your screaming brain, your mortification is well-received. Despite the teeth digging into his bottom lip, his smile only grows. Tossing the rest of your caution out the window, you break down and snicker, ducking your head.

“Oh, well, _indeed_.” You manage after you recover, a hand on your chest. “And you know what, it's well deserved! It'll teach people to do their research.”

“I can only hope.” He rests a large palm on the counter, his bright eyes crinkled in the corners.

“Ahhh...” You entertain the idea for a few seconds. Yes, a world where people researched before jumping the gun _would_ be nice. “Anyway, I hope that book helps you out. I didn't mean to make your life harder when I said your writing could be... you know.”

“And I guarantee you that you didn't.” He tucks his bag closer to his body, stepping away from the counter. “If anything, you've saved me a lot of trouble. Correcting that error now has saved me from a lot of stress.”

Oh, that makes sense. Since you didn't write reports on the daily, you had little trouble with making your sentences flow. You were sure that dropping that bit of criticism would have been a formidable obstacle to someone like him. And, perhaps it was, but at least he hadn't thrown in the towel. You're quite sure he won't.

And, if he won't quit, neither will you!

“Well,” You say, raising your hands and gesturing to yourself jokingly. “You know where to find me if you ever need any more feedback.”

“I do,” He says. Marco looks like he's about to leave to write when he stops, fixing you with a curious look. Brow pinched, he reaches into his pocket and extracts his phone, holding it out to you. “However... would it bother you if I consulted you outside of work?”

_What?_

_..._

_Wait, what?_

He... he's asking for your phone number.

Right. _Right_.

...

He... Oh, wow, he doesn't mind your help? What?

Your name ghosts past his lips gently, as if he feared spooking you. Realizing that you'd failed to take his device, you do, rebooting your brain and hoping for the best. “I-I... no, of course not, Marco. Are you sure? Like I said, I'm not an expert when it comes to this...” Is your stomach doing flips? Why is your head so warm? Are you going to crash like one of the old computers in the store?

“You seem to know what you're doing, though.” He argues, gently urging you to input your phone number by pointing at the screen.

“And, besides...” Your grip around his phone tightens as your heart skips numerous beats. That content smile returns with a vengeance as he tilts his head, meeting your eye once more. “I'd like to know you better. I leave seeing you up to chance most of the time, don't you think?”

...

...

The air trapped in your lungs leaves you loudly.

Marco's eyebrows inch up almost expectantly, though there is nothing but patience and kindness on his face. No amount of searching digs up any ill-intention.

Wow.

Wordlessly, you type your phone number and your name. Your face is burning.

There was no salvaging anything at this point. You couldn't brush off your reaction with a bad joke. Could you really blame yourself, though? He'd just...!

“From one writer to another,” You begin shyly as you place his phone into his open palm, fingers lingering on the case, “That means a lot.” Removing your hand, you scratch the back of your neck, lips quirking upward.

Marco nods, pleased and obviously grateful. “Thank you. I didn't mean to surprise you.”

“Oh, no, that's okay!” With that, the atmosphere shifts back to what you're used to, a weight lifting and taking off. _Thank. God._ There was no telling how long you could've continued to function if it hadn't. Your pulse had yet to settle. “It's no problem at all.”

The conversation lags. You don't know how the heck you're going to salvage it. Do you... do you want to?

He's studying you, taking advantage of the silence with slight concern visible in his eyes.

Quietly, you pipe up, “Thank you for shopping at the Book Bank yet again, Marco...”

He beams at you, patting his bag, and goes on his way. The soft chiming of the bell above the door is the only sound in the store. You wait fifteen minutes, feet glued to your spot and hands braced on the counter.

Well, it's quiet until you race to the couches and grab a pillow to muffle your screech.

“Finally did it, huh?”

Your horrified scream _booms_ in the empty store as you whirl around, wide eyes falling on your manager. She's massaging her chin pensively, sunglasses low on her nose and a drink in her other hand. Her low-riding jeans and crop-top are a strange sight, but then you remember how she is.

Rubbing your eyes, you mumble, “Oh, Kureha...”

“ _Heh,”_ She snorts, waving a hand dismissively. “Thought I was going to have to force you to make a move.”

“Yeah, well, what can you do.” You shrug, feeling exhausted all of a sudden. “How was...?”

“Same old, same old.” She says, plopping down on the sofa across the one you're occupying and crossing her slender legs. “Patients still driving me mad, but you know how it goes.”

“Maybe prodding their injuries is the issue?” You ask, grateful for the change in conversation.

“ _Bah!!_ ” You roll your eyes when she shakes her head as if you'd spoken another language. “What do you know? You can't even remember to make yourself a lunch, sometimes.”

“True,” You concede, knowing that you wouldn't win. “I still don't understand why you do _this_ when you could just be a doctor full time.”

“And leave you with this place? Nah.”

Another tired sigh. You're not in the mood to sit here and debate, so you rise, rolling your shoulders. “I wouldn't be able to run it without you, anyway.” You smile at her, waving as you walk away to gather your belongings. She raises her cup as a farewell, smirking.

She'd never reveal why she did all of this. That much you knew. Still, you couldn't help but wonder, sometimes.

...

Then again, you never quite understood how she procured many of the books here, either. There were some in storage that you'd never seen anywhere else.

Today's been a long day, though. You don't know if you can take any more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh-oh... this sort of spiralled out of control near the end, there. I meant to cut it off, but it felt a tad too short. Sorry if it seems a bit weird; I'll be sure to do some editing soon!! Were you surprised, tho? <.< I think there's going to be quite a bit to unravel here...
> 
> Anyway, this was fun. And, yes, Kureha is also part of this story. As you know, Marco is immortal in this story and, considering Kureha's age in the series... well, I entertained the idea as well, so here she is. I read the wiki, and it doesn't seem to state WHY she's so old, but... maybe I missed it. If you know, it would be cool if you could tell me because ughhuhuhhh! I don't want to make a huge mistake!!! Anyway, she's got secrets, too. 
> 
> Oh boy!!! I'm kinda excited to see where this goes, tbh. However, I implore you to have patience with me? hahahahaaaa... also, please tell me what you think so far!
> 
> ... can you tell I'm a bit nervous?
> 
> Anywho!!! Here's my tumblr, in case you want to look at what I do on there haha - https://www.tumblr.com/blog/allswellinthiswell.
> 
> ...
> 
> marco was a bit smooth there, tho, you can't really lie. oof.


	5. Late Night Pleasantries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... there's a whole bunch of texting in this chapter. If you're confused by it and don't know who is talking, please let me know! I'll do my best to clear things up. Other than that... enjoy :)
> 
> Note: phantom_sigyn has kindly let me know that things were a bit confusing, so I have changed it up. Marco's texts will be marked with his name, while yours will be marked with XXX-XXX-XXXX. I've been trying to avoid interrupting the flow of the chapters by not putting things like (y/n) or (name) down, but it seems things like these are just meant to be in some chapters. It's likely I won't be able to avoid it sometimes - in fact, it's made it a bit hard on me since I don't mind reading things like (y/n), but I know some people don't like that. So! ...yeah! That's that. Just trying new things, here!
> 
> Thank you again, phantom_sigyn!!
> 
> Uh.... yeah!! That's that. I hope this clears up any confusion ^^''

You receive a text from Marco not long after collapsing on your couch with a resounding sigh. It's almost nine in the evening when your ringtone happily drags you back to reality.

Staring at the blinking light on your device, you forget the notebook in your lap and reach for it. Humming to the soft, ambient music from your Bluetooth speaker, you read the notification. Not a second later, your lips stretch into a broad smile as your thumbs dance over the keyboard, replying to the text.

**Unknown Number - 10:00 PM**

_\- Hello, this is Marco._

You find his wording rather funny, thinking of messing with him. He's obviously playing it safe in case it isn't you. But when he asks for you, you banish the thought. Instead, you go through the process of saving his number into your contact list, inputting his name.

**XXX-XXX-XXXX - 10:02 PM**

_\- Hey, Marco! Yes, it's me. How are you doing?_

Sitting back on your couch, you wait for his reply. In the meantime, you check for other messages you might have forgotten about, seeing a text from Kureha. At first, you'd found the woman's offer to have her number odd, since she seemed so... unapproachable. Now, you don't know what you would do without the woman in your life. Sure, she could be intense, and that had taken some getting used to, but she was lovely. Especially when she wasn't grilling you about your health, which... she was doing exactly that, in her most recent text.

You press 'send' just as Marco replies to you. Excitedly, you read it.

**Marco - 10:03 PM**

_\- I'm doing well. Yourself?_

Ah, the pleasantries. They might be a lot easier over text, but your brain is already dredging different conversation topics to avoid any awkward moments. You place your phone on top of your notebook, collecting your discarded writing tool and tapping it on the paper.

Above the screen is the underlined title of your newest writing piece. Below that, you'd compiled a list of things you could write about when it came to Marco.

Just the thought of writing about him makes you nervous again. You fight the nerves by replying, reminding yourself that he won't ever see it. Besides, it wasn't _illegal_ , for Pete's sake.

**XXX-XXX-XXXX - 10:04 PM**

_\- Doing good, too. Sitting on my couch trying to write, haha._

_\- You're not bothering me, though, so don't worry._

You tack on a smiley face at the end of the second text, wondering what the heck you should tell him if he asks questions. A few minutes tick by, a time you spend outlining the drabble. Sure, you _wanted_ to write about him, but... wow, it never gets easier, huh? Perhaps, for the sake of your sanity, you'll write about your first meeting. It seemed like your typical, day-to-day interaction, but there was something different about it.

You'd had customers walk in, titles of books memorized, all sporting different expressions. There'd been enthusiasm and reluctance. You'd seen joy bleed into faces of indifference at the sight of a particular novel. There'd been people remembering books they thought were terrible as teenagers, only to sheepishly change their mind after re-reading it when they're older.

And yet, you'd never seen anything like Marco's face when you first met. It was completely blank, and yet he treated the book like... like...

**Marco - 10:08 PM**

_\- Any luck?_

Without thinking, you reply, lips pursed.

**XXX-XXX-XXXX - 10:09 PM**

_\- A little... though, it's mostly planning. I'm thinking of writing about this one customer._

_\- He was something else, I tell you. And not in the best of ways._

**XXX-XXX-XXX - 10:10 PM**

_\- How about you? Did you manage to get any writing done today?_

Okay, so... you weren't exactly the best at lying, especially without mentally preparing yourself for the task. _However,_ you did have a few stories to tell, so there was no problem.

“Not committing a crime,” You mumble as you focus on your writing again, “...just super embarrassed. Yep.”

The pen twirls in your hand as you consider how you want to finish that last sentence, mulling it over. Usually, you're good at figuring these things out. The chattier customers were always telling you _why_ they wanted to buy a book. Emotional attachment to characters or a world, research, presents.

You... don't think it was the book itself.

Marco was doing it because there was a connection, there. He was a descendant of one of the most dangerous pirates to ever exist, after all. And... well, you might have done a bit of digging of your own.

Whitebeard... he was a strange pirate. Much of the information on him had been destroyed during the fall of the World Government. The texts all contained information about his endeavours, victories, and actions – good and bad. And it wasn't infallible, judging by Marco's vague explanation regarding the divisions.

This time, you startle when you receive a text. You hadn't even been writing anymore.

You cast your notebook a wary look.

The more you found out, the more confusing it was. You had _something_ to write about, though, so that much you could celebrate. Perhaps you could jot down your thoughts about Marco for now. Seeing as you were going to interact outside of your workplace, you're bound to learn more about his connection to Whitebeard. That, and more. Marco was more than just a descendant of a pirate, no doubt about it. Your erratic heartbeat can attest to that, for sure.

**Marco - 10:13 PM**

_\- Not much, no. I'm thinking of outlining Whitebeard's past soon._

_\- I'm curious about that customer, though. I hope it wasn't me._

You almost laugh out loud. If only he knew.

Wait, nope, you take that back.

In the end, you hope you haven't jinxed yourself and give up on writing for the day. If you were going to make a drabble about your first thoughts, you're going to sort through them calmly. Not when you're biting your lip and smiling like a schoolgirl at your phone.

Chuckling to yourself, you dedicate the rest of your energy to your conversation.

**XXX-XXX-XXXX - 10:15 PM**

_\- No, no, of course not! Trust me, we would not be texting if you left a bad impression._

_\- And, uh... oh, it was just this one guy. He came in one day, asking for all sorts of books that I doubt even exist in the first place. I was running up and down aisles, trying to find them in the storage room, all to no avail._

Marco texts you as you're typing.

**Marco - 10:17 PM**

_\- Sounds... suspicious._

And, again, you are left to wonder his age when he casually asks:

**Marco - 10:18 PM**

_\- I'm sorry if I'm interrupting you. However, I'd like to send you a picture of the planning._

**Marco - 10:20 PM**

_\- ...Do you know how I can do that?_

Your face hurts and, when you bring a hand to cover your mouth, you take note of how wide your grin is. In between fits of giggles, you cut your message so you can paste it later, and explain the process to him. When you finally receive the image a few minutes later, it's a PDF, which means he's not _completely_ lost when it comes to technology. Then again, you didn't know everything there was to know about your phone.

In terms of the planning... well, it's a bullet-point list of the things he wants to include. The contents include Whitebeard's childhood, upbringing, and his home island. What's more, there was mention of a crew you'd never even heard of. It provides a smooth transition into the next chapter, which is just about his time with those people.

**XXX-XXX-XXX - 10:25 PM**

_\- Wow!! That looks great, Marco! You're going to make those authors cry._

_\- But, and you don't have to answer this, how are you getting all of this information?_

You feel a bit guilty for questioning him, even if it's valid and not invasive. Your research was not overly thorough, and though there were big parts of Whitebeard's life missing, there was truth to it. From what you know about him, it was clear Marco is serious about writing this book. And lying is the last thing you'd want to do when tackling the life of such an important historical figure. But, still... you couldn't help the curiosity.

What greets you next is a picture of yellowed pages and a _bounty poster_. Of _Whitebeard._

What _the_...?

Incredulously, you stare at it, sorting through all sorts of memories. You'd stumbled upon image after image of Whitebeard, but... that looked like it belonged in a museum, behind glass, with an array of motion sensors around it. And a flamethrower to thwart all thieves. How... how old was that poster? And what were those papers?

Upon closer inspection, you gasp, your squinting eyes wide. Your smile is even larger.

**XXX-XXX-XXXX - 10:28 PM**

_\- Nooooo! No way! Were those written by Whitebeard himself?!_

_\- You know, history might not be my thing, but that's SUPER cool._

_\- What the heck!! I haven't seen that anywhere!_

Oh, you're sure Marco would laugh in that quiet way of his if he were here. You sounded like a child who'd just been told they were going to the amusement park. You regret nothing, though.

**Marco - 10:30 PM**

_\- They were written by him, yes. And there're more. My family's passed this all down to me._

**Marco - 10:31 PM**

_\- I didn't mean to keep you from telling your customer story, though._

What was he...? _Oh_ , damn! _Damn_ , he'd really gotten you with the planning. And then he'd whipped out the papers out of nowhere and you were gone. Does that story matter though? You don't think so, but you suppose you should provide closure.

Idly, you check the time, blanching when you see the hour. It was _late_.

**XXX-XXX-XXXX - 10:33 PM**

_\- Nah, that was totally my fault. I got so excited that I forgot haha. Do you have to work at all, though? It's late!_

Not too, too late. At least, not in your little world. Marco seems to live the same lifestyle because he casually dismisses your concern.

**Marco - 10:34 PM**

_\- Technically, I'm never really free on weekends, anyway. I don't sleep much, either._

Oh. Huh.

**XXX-XXX-XXXX - 10:35 PM**

_\- You don't get weekends off? What do you do?_

While he types, you search your mind for an answer of your own, eyebrows furrowed in concern.

**Marco - 10:36 PM**

_\- I'm a family doctor._

Ah.

Yeah, that makes sense. You suppose doctors are always on the clock. And there's likely more to it than just that. You're thankful for the simple wording, regardless.

You're pleasantly surprised at this revelation, and yet not at all. You got that vibe off of him, though it might have been the glasses in the end.

**XXX-XXX-XXXX - 10:38 PM**

_\- Well, then! Look at you!_

_\- That's really neat._

_\- But anyway, I suppose since you're so interested, I should finish that story haha._

With your thumb to the screen, you paste the message you'd been typing before his question and the subsequent distraction. You add a few sentences here and there, finishing it up with a small grin, remembering how the customer ran away from you that day.

**XXX-XXX-XXXX - 10:40 PM**

_\- So, this guy has me wandering around. And every time I ask him the title of the book he wants, it changes. At first, it was your good old classics – he even mentioned the One Piece book, if I recall correctly._

_\- After sending me away for the fourth time, only to find nothing, I find him hunched over his phone._

_\- It probably wasn't... polite of me, but I glanced at the screen and... well..._

**XXX-XXX-XXXX - 10:41 PM**

_\- I can tell you the material was kind of... nsfw._

_\- He got mad at me after I told him we didn't sell that sort of thing here. Threw a tantrum the size of a house and, when I gave him some pointers as to where he could find what he wanted, his face went red. Then, he ran._

_\- It was an odd day for me._

**XXX-XXX-XXXX - 10:43 PM**

_\- Ah, it's probably not as funny now that I think about it, but... well, I had a good laugh after cooling off._

It _had_ been hilarious at the time. Also, it was only made better by the fact that you'd started working there not two days prior. Certainly an odd welcome to a new environment, but you couldn't complain. Kureha, on top of being a good friend, paid you well.

While reminiscing, Marco sends you a text you were not expecting.

**Marco - 10:45 PM**

_\- Nsfw?_

Oh _no_.

You smack a hand over your eyes, throwing your head back as you snicker in your silent apartment. The noise echoes eerily in your dark living room. Opting to take a breather, you stand up, wincing when your bones pop loudly. You make a beeline for the nearest light switch, flipping it with a good-natured giggle.

_Oh, Marco. What should I do about this?_

Ah, it's not like you're pre-teens.

You stretch before replying, wondering how you should even phrase your explanation.

**XXX-XXX-XXXX - 10:46 PM**

_\- Ah, you know... Adult content? Stuff that is... not for children._

There's a long pause.

**Marco - 10:51 PM**

_\- Gotcha._

And, after another minute:

**Marco - 10:52 PM**

_\- Why anyone would even..._

**Marco - 10:53 PM**

_\- Hm. Just when you think you've heard and seen it all..._

That has your shoulders shaking as you try to contain peals of laughter, failing miserably. Your neighbours are not going to be happy with you.

**XXX-XXX-XXXX - 10:55 PM**

_\- I forgot to mention that it stands for 'not safe for work'._

The topic changes soon after that. Marco tells you of all the mishaps he's had with phones and the internet's confusing initialisms. All of them are innocent things that typically happens to everyone at least once in their life. A part of you is grateful that he hasn't accidentally crossed paths with anything that might scar him forever. You do warn him to be careful though, laughing when he sends a gif of a nervous cartoon reindeer.

**XXX-XXX-XXXX - 11:01 PM**

_\- Look at you, figuring things out!_

And, no, you couldn't help a bit of teasing.

It's not long before you feel exhausted, though, which is odd for you. The day had been taxing, but not the worse you've had, so you don't understand why you're so tired. After relaying a few apologies to him, you get a gif of the same cartoon reindeer waving farewell.

It's really cute. You didn't pin him as a person to use many emojis, and – well, he hadn't used any. Just the gifs.

Hm.

Three minutes after saying goodbye and on your way to conking out for the night, an idea enters your hazy mind. Sprawled on your bed with the covers barely shielding you from the chill, you narrow your eyes at the ceiling.

...

...

...

**XXX-XXX-XXXX - 11:11 PM**

_\- Before I go to bed, I wanted to ask you something!_

**Marco - 11: 12 PM**

_\- Go right ahead._

**XXX-XXX-XXXX - 11:13 PM**

_\- Do you still plan on dropping by the Book Bank?_

**Marco - 11:14 PM**

_\- I do. Though I do have a busier schedule these next few weeks, so I might not be able to do so as often as I'd like._

**XXX-XXX-XXXX - 11:16 PM**

_\- Ah, okay._

_\- I... do you want to meet up outside of my workplace next weekend or something, then? To talk about the book? That is if you're going to be able to write at all._

You might be low on energy, but your heart is racing in your ribcage, pounding against it relentlessly. Your grip on your phone tightens considerably as you wait for his answer.

**Marco - 11:19 PM**

_\- I think I can do that. Where would you like to go and when?_

...

You know that if anyone saw you now, they'd laugh at how silly you look. You do _feel_ kind of silly after celebrating with a whisper-yelled ' _yes!!'_ and the goofiest dance. You could probably compare it to a caterpillar wiggling around.

**XXX-XXX-XXXX - 11:21 PM**

_\- That's great! I'll send you the details soon!_

_\- Take care, Marco. Try to get some sleep, too!_


	6. Friendly Outing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted this to be one chapter... but then I realized that it's been more than three months... so I decided to split it up. Sorry for the awkward ending.

Alright, so...

You're not sure where you want to go.

After asking Marco about his schedule the next morning, he stated he has the day off next Sunday, which worked for you. You weren't planning on doing much that day, aside from the chores you've been putting off for a while. However, because you are a Responsible Adult, you finish them before the event.

_Besides, if I do them now, I won't have to do them later._

Logic.

And so, you hunker down and set to work, cleaning supplies in hand.

You hum along to the music playing from your speaker, dancing as you flit through your bedroom and apartment. The lyrics you know, you mumble, and the ones you don't, you still mumble even if they are wrong. Usually, you'd sing to your heart's content, but with your meet-up approaching, you refrain. This matter requires concentration and digging through memories, and you couldn't focus on two things at once. How unfortunate.

A safe bet would, obviously, be a simple cafe or restaurant. Nothing too fancy or garish. And, even then, you're debating whether you should settle on a restaurant. This is the first time you're meeting outside of your workplace, and- wait, does that mean you should choose a restaurant?

How do you capture the casual-but-not-too-casual feel without missing the mark?

You pluck a shirt hanging off your desk chair, pursing your lips in thought and narrowing your eyes at the garment.

If picking a place was giving you this much grief, you feared rummaging through your closet for an outfit.

Shaking your head, you throw the shirt on the pile of clothes that you need to wash, grumbling.

A simple outing with someone didn't require much thought, but... what did you really know about Marco? Sure, there's his connection to Whitebeard, his novel, and his doctor job. However, you don't remember ever hearing him mention a hobby or favourite food. He looks like a guy that enjoys a good ol' cup of coffee, but what if you're wrong?

“You're overthinking this.” You massage your temples in mild frustration. Better put an end to that train of thought before it can derail and drag you with it. “You're overthinking this.”

You are.

The book wasn't the only reason for meeting up with the man. It was about you both. You were two friends getting to know each other. It was a casual thing! Besides, he looks like a guy that appreciates the simpler aspects of life. A quaint shop is an ideal option, in this case. And, if all goes well, you can take a walk through the park nearby.

That's probably the best you're going to get out of your brain, so you choose to roll with it.

Marco might be an enigma, but you're determined to figure him out.

(x)

“It's just around this corner,” You announce happily, head turning as you beam at Marco. A strong breeze ruffles the hair poking from under your beanie, which you brush back stubbornly. The weather, like usual, had been unpredictable these last few days. Today, the sky showed signs of rain, a promise it kept, though that had cleared up swiftly. You had to face a rather fierce wind when you went outside, though that you didn't mind.

You pat yourself on the back in your mind, anyway. The bomber jacket had been a good idea. You just wish the wind didn't have such a bite; your legs were freezing. They might become two popsicles if you don't arrive soon.

Marco mirrors your expression, though with more restraint, adjusting the navy blue scarf wrapped around his neck. He'd donned a long, brown trench coat, one he unbuttoned to reveal a wool sweater of the same shade. Under the sweater, he wore a white, collared shirt. The man had forgone the jeans for a pair of black pants. The dress shoes caught you by surprise, but, like the rest of his outfit, they suited him.

You'd met at a local park, and, admittedly, when you saw him, you faltered. He'd been sitting on a bench, his Strawhat Pirates book propped on his lap. With how concentrated on the novel he was, you feared disturbing him. Then, as if sensing your presence, his gaze snapped up to meet yours, sending a jolt of alarm through you, and felt the need to retreat. It was disconcerting when you found yourself frozen to your spot, keenly aware of your heart battering your ribcage.

The spell broke when the corners of his lips lifted, welcoming you.

Sauntering up to him with the usual bounce to your step, you greeted him jovially as you plucked a leaf from his blond hair. You almost didn't notice it with how seamlessly it blended with his hair, a thought you relayed to him.

That had earned you a good-natured chuckle and you relaxed, dismissing your previous feelings of shock.

Thinking back on it brings a small, fond smile to your face.

“I've never been to this part of town,” Marco comments casually, the heels of his dress shoes clicking on the sidewalk, surveying the shops. Blinking, you arch an eyebrow at him, slowing down slightly to prolong the exchange.

“Really?” You ask, copying him and scanning the area. This street was comfortably sparse and the local stores were your go-to places when you need fresh air. Most were cafes and restaurants, others were clothing stores, all distinct from each other in their own ways. You politely decline any offers made by vendors and those handing out samples.

Marco hums in confirmation, eyes settling on your destination.

“Well, then, you've been missing out.” You quip jokingly, marching up to the entrance with confidence. A sign above spells out the name in bright orange letters. “Because this, Marco, is one of the best places around.”

“Spiders Cafe?” Marco reads aloud, pulling his hands from his pockets and rubbing them together. You nod, pushing the door to the establishment open. The air-conditioning inside chases the chill away from your face, your cheeks and nose flushing red.

“They have the best coffee,” You move out of Marco's way, holding the door for him and giving a little mock bow. He sends you an amused glance as he glides past you, shoes clicking on the checkered, sparkling floor. While he absorbs the sight of the waitresses and patrons, you let go of the door, waiting for his verdict.

“I don't see any spiders...” He jokes, his voice lowered to match the volume in the room. Marco watches as you peel off your coat before doing the same. You're wearing a simple white turtle neck sweater, pants tucked into your boots to preserve warmth.

Laughing, you lead him to a booth, occupying one of the orange seats. Marco sits across from you with a small sigh, body sinking into the plush cushions.

“It's a nice place, though, right?” You smile at one of the waitresses, who waves at you cheerfully. Marco deduces that you must be a regular if your presence brings such a smile to a worker's face.

Outside, it seemed like any old cafe, with the large windows and pink and orange parasols. The scheme within its walls was the same. Though nothing stood out to him, he could see why you chose this place to meet up. Despite the numerous voices and the music in the background, it was quiet and welcoming. Very unlike many of the places his crew used to visit.

Weak rays of sunlight break through the grey clouds, spilling inside the room and bouncing off the floor. Suddenly, everything is much... livelier. Marco sees a few customers glance outside, perking up at the prospect of nice weather once they depart.

The atmosphere, the location, and the smell of coffee and sugary treats made it an appealing establishment.

Perfect for relaxing after a rough day, he thinks. And, you know, to write.

The blond imagines you scribbling in a notebook, a coffee in front of you, and smiles.

“It is,” He agrees.

You brighten up visibly at his response, then shake your head, trying to reign in your excitement. It reminds him of-

“I'll be honest, I didn't know if you would have preferred something more...”

“Expensive? Gaudy? Over the top?” He offers, leaning back in his seat when he senses a waitress walk towards you two. That last thought could wait until he made it back home.

“Yeah,” You chuckle, anxiously scratching the back of your neck. Marco nods reassuringly, ensuring that he turns to the woman when you raise a hand to draw her attention and not before.

He knows he'd spooked you earlier at the park. His haki warned him of the new presence and his body reacted automatically. When he realized it was you - wide-eyed, unsure, unaware - he cursed his fine-tuned observation abilities. However, when you had centuries to hone such skills...

Well, it is safe to say that nothing gets past Marco anymore.

While you share pleasantries with the waitress, he recalls your last conversation over text and his confusion when he read the strange word... NSFW. It must have been painful to explain. Or not. He didn't really know how you felt regarding those things.

...

...

So, some things still make it past him... but only online. He knew how strange the web could be and he wanted no part in it.

That didn't mean he didn't think about what could have been. He imagined several members would become rather popular on the internet for all the right and all the wrong reasons.

Ace with a News Coo account during his murder phase...

How many times would he have gotten ' _cancelled_ '?

...

_#firefistisoverparty...._

He did not entertain the idea for too long.

“This is Marco!” He snaps back to reality just in time for you to introduce him to the waitress. The nametag pinned to her chest reads “Lilly”. Unsurprisingly, her get-up consisted of an orange blouse and a pink skirt that ended mid-thigh. Unlike the others, though, she was not wearing kitten heels. Instead, she wore white sneakers, pink socks poking out from underneath.

Without missing a beat, he extends his hand for her to shake. She does so with an impressed hum. “Nice to meet you, Lilly.”

“He's polite, too...” She 'whispers' to you, winking as the handshake ends. You tut, a warning written on your face as you shake your head. “Is... is this a...?”

“No, Lilly. It's not.” You sigh, smile wavering slightly. “We're here to talk about... stuff... like his book!”

Another voice, this time an older woman behind the counter, comments, “He's also a writer...?”

_Uh oh._

You glance at Marco, eyebrows pinched and cheeks somewhat red. He tilts his head, feigning perplexity, which appears to work in calming you.

“Lilly, if you could...” You point at the menus tucked against her side. She blinks, suddenly remembering why she was here, and gives them to you with a velvety chuckle.

“Of course, of course...” She pats you on the shoulder, “You let me know when you're ready to order, hun.” You shoot her a quick 'thanks', sliding one of the menus towards him. He accepts it, his lips quirking in the corners at the way the tension leaves your body.

“Sorry,” You breathe, slouching a little, “They're... they're not always like that.”

“Like what?” He asks, unfaltering even when you raise an accusing eyebrow. Marco calmly mirrors your expression.

His is more effective. You deflate with a dramatic eye roll.

“Please, you're way smarter than I am. You already know what they think about... this.” You chortle as your eyes skim the menu, not bothering to explain what this was. Time to pretend like you didn't rehearse what your order for the entire walk to this place.

“They think this is a date.” Marco doesn't miss the way you raise your menu up to your nose as he speaks. He spares you from his scrutiny to find Lilly and the other woman staring at him, whispering to each other. The lady behind the counter waves her hands and shoos Lilly from her station, acting like nothing was amiss.

“Yeah,” You manage, placing your menu on the table. “But, never mind them! They like to gossip. Can't do anything about that.” Happily, you point at your desired drink, tapping the paper twice, “What we can do, however, is order some drinks.”

“True, true...”

Marco decides to go with a black coffee, something that amuses you for some reason. When he politely calls you out on it, you shrug slowly, claiming that you expected him to order it.

...he supposes it's fair.

You decide to spice things up a little for his sake. One of the best cafes and all he chooses is a black coffee? Not on your watch.

“Here, I'll get us some of these, as well.” The mere thought of eating a few of the doughnuts they serve here has your stomach rumbling noisily. You glance up at Marco to see if he'd heard, and... he has. Okay. He's chuckling softly. That's also okay.

Ignoring your reddening cheeks, you rub your belly, a bit helpless. “What can I say? They're good doughnuts.”

The conversation flows from there. You poke fun at the noises your stomach made and what happened earlier with the waitresses. Lilly appears to take your orders then, jotting them down with practiced ease. She takes off and you watch her go, ignoring the way your stomach twists at the thought of this being a date.

Is it a date? Do you want a date? Does Marco?

Does it matter? You hardly know the guy!

 _Casual_. You remind yourself. Lilly returns with your drinks and a plate of mini doughnuts. Surprise, surprise, the frosting is also pink and orange. _This is a casual thing. We're friends. We're getting to know each other._

Were you really this far out of your element?

Marco asks about how you discovered the cafe and you pounce on the opportunity to tell him the story. Time to get rid of those thoughts before your outing goes downhill.

“My friend and I, we had several classes together, and one of them was a writing course. It was... gosh, that teacher was something else.” Your hands encircle the warm mug Lilly set in front of you. You've been waiting for it to cool off and, finally, it's not burning your palms anymore. Marco reaches for his second doughnut and a part of you feels victorious.

Taking a small sip, you hum, appreciating your coffee. “We were both fresh out of high school, so we didn't really know our way around university yet. Now, this teacher... you could tell he was, ah... he had an ego. Not a massive one, but it was there.”

You place a doughnut on your own plate, wiping off the powdered sugar that sticks to your fingertips. “We got points taken off our first assignments because we wrote 'Mister', not 'Doctor', on our title pages.”

“Doctor.” Marco parrots, tilting his head to the side. “A writing teacher.”

“Exactly our thoughts.” You exclaim, still vexed by this... even if it was a few years ago.

“Well... he got marks off...” Sipping your drink, you shrink a little when Marco's gaze doesn't budge from you. “I... didn't even put down a title page. I sucked when it came to the formatting. Got better eventually, though!”

“I get it.” He says, nodding along with a look in his eye that appeared wistful. You want to comment on it, to ask what is troubling him, but... today isn't about that. You wouldn't spill your guts to a person you don't know that well on your first friendly outing. If anything, it makes you want to work harder to get him to laugh and smile.

“Yeah...” You pop the doughnut into your mouth, dabbing your lips with the napkin Lilly provided. When you're done chewing, you speak again, “I was a bit of a mess, back then. Still kind of am, but I like to think I am at least somewhat functional.”

Marco hums, finishing off his drink with smooth movements. The chatter in the cafe fills the gap in the conversation. You seize this opportunity, emptying your own mug and wolfing down one last powdered treat.

“What about you?” You prompt, catching the man's attention again. When he doesn't reply, simply studying you with his crystal blue eyes, you elaborate, “Where'd you study? Out of town... overseas...?”

“I only moved here a short while ago, so... yes, definitely out of town.” Marco begins thoughtfully, finger following the curve of the mug's handle.

“Oh, really?” That was a bit of a surprise. If there was anything your city was known for, it was the medical schools set up here. The city benefited greatly from all the doctors that graduated from the schools. You'd seen more and more people risk a lot for a chance to enter one of the universities.

“You're curious because the Torino Kingdom's medical knowledge that was transferred here.”

“I see you know a bit of history.” Your playful tone falls as you guide the conversation back to the original topic. “Yes, for sure. I mean...” Raising your hands, you search for the right words, “it was... revolutionary, really. Of all the places it could have gone to, and it ended up in this corner of the world..."

It was good that they could return to their way of life after the exchange between the two parties.

“It was a shock, yes.” Marco agrees easily. “But, to answer your question,” He taps the rim of the ceramic mug, smiling, “Flevance.”

“If I remember correctly, that's all the way in the North Blue!” Oh, you would love to visit that country, one day. Or, well, at least its descendant. You'd learned of the country's dream-like beauty before its destruction at the hands of the World Government. Obviously, they couldn't recover an entire island... though, after much searching, monuments, buildings, and other pieces of its culture were restored. Flevance was reborn. You'd also heard that it was cold as all hell, though you could look past that after donning a winter coat. “It must have been so beautiful...”

“It should be its 150th anniversary very soon, actually.” Marco comments, entertained by your excitement.

“That's so neat.” You sigh, the place you'd conjured in your mind beyond gorgeous. Hopefully, one day you can visit. “Is that where you're from, originally?”

Marco huffs a little, closing his eyes as his lips stretch into an easy smile. “No... I used to travel a lot, so...”

“So the whole world is your home?”

He seems to think about that a little, rubbing his chin pensively. “I suppose so, yes.”

“Then you have to tell me more.” You pipe up, palms braced on the table as you straighten. Then, realizing that your enthusiasm might not be appreciated, reign it back in. Settling down again and appearing Adult Like is a bit embarrassing, especially since Marco is clearly having a ball. It's not as apparent, but you think he's enjoying himself.

”Ask away,”

Oh, you're going to.

“Okay, okay... so, the world is your home, sure, but you must have started somewhere...” You muse out loud, pressing a finger to your lips. When the question materializes in your mind, you point the same finger at him. “What was the first place you visited?”

_A too-large hand ruffles his dark hair, disheveling it further. Peeking up through the man's fingers, Marco grins boyishly at the elder. The long blond tresses cascading down his back are threaded with white, a testament to his age. The curved moustache twitches._

_“You did good, kid.”_

_The island, marked by uproar and cheer, welcomes the ever-expanding crew of the Whitebeard Pirates. He doesn't remember the name of the place, or who it was they were fighting, but the inhabitants were happy and so was Pops. He didn't need to worry about that when he and his crew could finally relax after months at sea._

_Soon after that, they met Oden._

“Wano, I believe...” He answers. “Or somewhere nearby. I'm not one hundred percent sure.”

“Wano... Wano...” You don't know much about Wano, just that they were very isolationist. It's what saved their country after the last Pirate Age... and that's all you remember from high school.

“In the New World... well, at least that's where it was before the Red Line split.”

“Yeah...” You rub your forehead, chortling loudly. “I forgot how much I hated geography and history.”

“Sorry,” He says, guilty completely absent from his tone. “We can talk about something else if you'd like.”

“You know what, that sounds good.”

Both of you share a moment, laughing amongst yourselves at the dizzy expression you put on. You tended to nurse massive headaches after each and every history lecture, so yes, moving on was for the best.

“Anyway,” You breathe after you've recovered from your laughing fit, “How is the book coming along?"

Maybe, when you go out again, you can ask for a couple of stories. Who knows what he'd seen in his travels! You'd probably have to take notes if it really was as complicated as Marco made it seem...

Well, you excelled at note-taking back in the day.

And the way Marco's shoulders droop just slightly is worthy of your attention.


	7. Still Friendly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooooooooo I'm having fun with this
> 
> Thank you for all your comments on the last chapter. I loved reading them. If you find any mistakes or see anything odd, I'm really sorry. I'm trying to put these chapters out a little faster lmao. 
> 
> Also, I would like to wish you all a really, really late Happy New Year!!!!!!! It still doesn't feel real to me sometimes lmao. 2020??? Over??? How bizarre.
> 
> Anyway, please enjoy!

“And... that's what's been happening.” Marco forces a chuckle at the end of his sentence, an act that comes naturally. As a writer yourself, you know what this is all about. You also know _all_ about the _I-know-this-is-kinda-dumb_ chuckle. It comes to you whenever you talk about your own work with anyone.

Leaning back with a hand pressed against your mouth, you think, mulling over his words. Humming, you nod, fiddling with the plate of doughnuts... all of which were gone. Marco's not ashamed to admit that you were right. They were good.

“You're struggling with the content you want to include, basically.” You state, pointing a finger at him and narrowing your eyes. He nods once, slowly, his smile taking on a sadder and more sheepish edge. Sighing, you reach across the table and pat him on the arm, sitting up.

“You know, that's totally normal.” You assure him, a faraway look in your eye. “If that was me... I'd also be overwhelmed. I mean, it seems like a lot of information to summarize for a book.”

Marco nods again.

“But, let's think...” Pausing, you gather your thoughts, shifting in your seat. Words are important when it comes to this sort of problem. You know what it feels like to seek advice and leave feeling like you've learned nothing new.

_Practice makes perfect!_

Yes, yes it does. 

That advice didn't always help, though.

Nothing against your teachers or friends, of course. Brains are obstinate organs and change, improvement, and whatever else is something you have to _want_. Without that need and a routine... well, you feel stuck. Forever. You're in the process of overcoming that obstacle, still.

“You want to write about Whitebeard. That's been your goal the entire time, right?”

_I want them all to be remembered._

“Yes, it has,” Marco confirms, shoving that thought into the farthest corner of his. There are so many people, islands, and experiences he wants to flesh out in the book. He wants the world to remember his family and his father as _he_ does, not as the government would have them believe.

But... it is too much information. Writing about the commanders, the crew, the people they'd met – even _Shank_ s, of all people – is an idea he can't abandon.

It's an idea he also fears.

Anyone with the ability to think critically would question the content of the book. They would wonder where it came from when a search on the web offered them nothing. That curiosity would lead them to him, and he'd have to bury the truth _that much_ deeper. And Marco... Marco was very tired of that. If the book was well-received and people learned about him, he'd have to come up with _another_ comprehensive backstory.

“Okay,” You breathe, inhaling deeply. When you speak again, your tone is somewhat pointed, as if... “So, let's focus on that and _only_ that.”

As if you'd caught on to something.

Marco expects you to ask questions. Subconsciously, he is ready for the barrage with a million and more lies at his disposal. But you don't. You simply wait for him to respond. He blinks, once, twice, three times.

“Sure.”

Breathing becomes easier for a short moment, and he realizes that he's feeling relief, of all things.

“Okay, so...” You frown at your empty mug for the third time. With a furtive glance around the room, he spots Lilly speaking to another customer. When an idea sprouts in your mind, however, your mood switches back to its usual joyfulness. “What do you think your average joe knows about Whitebeard?”

“That he was a pirate.” Marco answers. You snap your fingers and, with a proud grin, point a pair of finger guns at him.

“Exactly. They _only_ see a pirate. And what did pirates do back then? A lot of really bad stuff.” You sound excited again. “And, sure, the pirate hatred has obviously died down throughout the years... but it's not exactly the most sought after job, either.” Actually, piracy was pretty popular among some groups of people, but that wasn't too important right now.

“So it's the same with Whitebeard. Nobody looks at a picture of him and see an old man petting bunnies and promoting peace.”

“Bunnies?” Marco arches an eyebrow at you, smirking.

“I couldn't think of anything else.” You wave your hand, unable to stop the giggles that ghost past your lips. “Work with me, here!"

“I am,” The blond chortles with you, settling down so that you can continue. When you look away, shaking your head, he searches the room for Lilly. She is about to walk past your table when he catches her attention, pointing at your mug. Understanding, Lilly sends him a smile and leaves.

“Okay, so, that's what people expect when they hear 'Whitebeard'. A pirate. And, yes, you should definitely write about that, but write about his life _before_ that, too.” You drum your fingers on the table, the cogs in your brain picking up speed.

You're pretty sure he's already doing that. However, you feel the need to emphasize it with how little you actually found. You couldn't even find the name of the island where he was born!

“In the beginning, you can give the reader a blurb about the things he did as a pirate! Like, uh... The places he conquered and his... territories? And, to pique people's interest, write about his interactions with Roger, too. Then, when you're sure you've got 'em hooked, write the stuff you _really_ want.”

“The way I see it, I think it should look like this...” With a finger, you draw a line on the table, then point to one of its ends. “First, his childhood. What was his life on the island like? What did he do? What led to his peculiar choice in career?”

You slide your finger down the line, stopping after you've covered a few centimetres. Tapping the table, you keep talking, “Then, the beginning of it all. I don't know anything about that, but I'm sure you do. After that... maybe some stuff about the crew! And then...then... uh... _yeah... I..._ ”

It is now time for _The Realization_ to wash over you.

...

You've been talking for _a loooong time_.

When you suddenly stop, your hands retreating under the table, his gaze drifts to your face.

 _Hit your limit, didn't you?_ Marco thinks jokingly, slightly disappointed that you clammed up. He doesn't bring it up, though. He understands.

Bravely, you stare back, secretly fiddling with the sleeve of your jacket.

A minute passes and he is still quiet. He looks away, an action that makes you nervous. Did... did you do something wrong? You _know_ you're not being the most helpful. Everything you said is rather basic.

Wordlessly, he pulls out a notebook and a pen from his jacket and quickly makes a few notes. You crane your neck to hopefully catch a few words, but the handwriting is small and packed together tightly. Realizing that what you're doing would be unwelcome in most cases, you sit back, acting nonchalant.

With a _snap_ , the book closes. He stores both items in his jacket.

“Thank you,” He says earnestly, giving you a glimpse of the emotion in his blue eyes. It's, simply put, pure gratefulness for your words. Heat crawls up your neck and pools in your cheeks.

You hope the blush is not too obvious. “I... yeah, no problem. I'm not sure what I said was anything groundbreaking, but...”

“But I needed it.”

Shyly, you shrug, unable to find the words to formulate a reply.

“Okay... but, uh, make sure you still mention the piracy and whatnot. You want people to know the whole truth, after all.” You carry on, tapping the table to emphasize your point. Your face feels really warm. With an embarrassed laugh, you rub your cheeks, knowing that there was no hiding it from him.

“Of course,” He scans your features, lingering on the tip of your nose, which... _yeah_. With how hot it feels, it wouldn't surprise you if your nose was also red. Oh well. It's fine.

“Is it too hot in here, hun? Your face is red.” You startle visibly when Lilly sneaks up behind you, a new mug of coffee on her tray. Smacking a hand over your chest, you heave a sigh, throwing your head back.

“You scared the heck out of me.” You breathe. When she places the new mug in front of you, you forget the scare. “Oh, I... didn't order this?”

“I did,” Marco pipes up with his easy-going smile.

“Was I that obvious?” You joke, thanking Lilly, as well. She pats you on the shoulder and, when she makes a move to leave, you add, “And, no, Lilly, it's not too hot. Thank you!”

Lilly and Marco spare each other an amused glance. With that, the woman leaves again.

“Anyway!” You sip your drink happily, “Thank you, Marco.”

“You're welcome. It's the least I can do after your help.” Marco bows his head slightly.

You don't really know what else you can talk about. While drinking, you look around the room, hoping the solution to this problem presents itself. The atmosphere is not awkward, not quite yet, but you can't keep drinking forever. Marco has taken an interest in the outside world, where, after breaking through the clouds, the sun is shining. It's a pale, washed-out light, but still an improvement from the grey, monotone colours you started the day with.

Your train of thought is derailed when you receive a message, your phone going off.

You forget your mug of coffee in favor of searching for the device. Rummaging through your coat pockets, you frown. With an apology to Marco, one he shakes his head at, you direct your attention to your phone.

_Hey! How have you been?_

...

Marco chances a glance at you out of the corner of his eye. You haven't moved or typed any reply to this person. Your thumbs hover over the screen as you blink at the words, trying to wrap your head around what you were seeing.

“Are you alright?” He asks, tilting his head to catch your attention again. His voice brings you back to reality, where you blink and smile brightly at him.

“Oh, yeah, sorry.” Straightening, you open the message and decide to provide an explanation for your change in demeanour. “It's- It's my friend! The one I told you about?”

“The one from university.” He concludes, resting his arms on the booth's table.

...How long had it been since you've talked to each other?

He wants to ask, but he doesn't want to overstep any boundaries, either.

“Yeah,” You chuckle, opening Parker's message and quickly typing your reply. While doing so, you add to your story from earlier. “You know, we joked about messing up the teacher's name on purpose.”

“Did you?” Marco marvels at how your thumbs practically teleport from one letter to the next. Now he understood why the secretary at his workplace laughed to herself whenever he texted anyone. He wished he could type that fast.

“Oh, no.” You shake your head, pausing to look at him. “But Parker did. Three times. He managed to convince the teacher that it was always an accident, but I don't think the guy bought it.”

Marco smiles at that. “He sounds like a good friend.”

“He is,” You agree, pressing send after finishing with your reply and storing your phone in your coat pocket again. With a quiet sigh, you turn back to Marco, your grin a tad smaller than usual. “He had to move away a few months ago. Family stuff.”

“I hope they're doing alright,” Marco replies sympathetically.

“Oh, yeah... I think he is. We haven't really talked much since. I was surprised to see him text me!” You chuckle a little, resting your hand on the pocket containing your device. You'd put it on 'vibrate' so that the noise wouldn't disturb you or Marco, anymore.

You couldn't deny that you were a bit concerned, though. It's been a while since you last spoke. Your conversations grew shorter and more sporadic as time went on.

Parker hadn't told you much; just that he was moving away to help his family with some trouble they'd had. You'd been quite saddened by the news. That didn't mean you were going to guilt-trip him by making a big deal out of it.

You supported him and helped him move out of his apartment, then sent him on his way with a cheeky salute at the airport.

“How's _your_ book coming along?” Marco asks. The corners of his lips twitch as if he's fighting a fit of laughter. Blankly, you stare at him, wondering when you'd ever talked about a-

Oh.

Your book.

 _That_ book.

“I think it _is_ a little hot in here, actually...” You mumble, tugging at your collar. Marco appears mighty proud of himself for reminding you of _that_ little fiasco when you first met. Rolling your eyes, you sigh dramatically.

“Well, _my friend_ and I are discussing it...” Marco hums, feigning surprise as he nods. He trails his finger along the edge of the plate, waiting for you to finish. And finish you would.

“It sucks.” You state with certainty, crossing your arms with a huff. The finality of your statement breaks through Marco's barely put-together mask.

He brings a hand to the lower part of his face, rubbing his lips. His smile is radiant as he asks, “Really? What makes you think that?”

“ _Oh,_ you do _not_ want to get me started, Marco.” You warn him, your blood boiling at the mere mention of that book. You're _itching_ to talk about it. The female lead? _That_ walking disaster? She makes you want to grab the blasted thing and chuck it out a window.

The feeling only intensifies with each passing moment. Marco's eyebrows arch upward, awaiting your tirade.

“I warned you, Marco.” You say, clearing your throat in preparation for the speech your mind is cooking up. “Where should I even begin? The weird plot? The characters? The protagonist? The cover itself?” Marco remains silent, content with letting you decide for yourself.

You haven't gotten through the whole novel, so _maybe_ , just _maybe_ , it will get better as you read on. There's not a lot of hope in your romantic heart. It's there, but it's faint.

It would probably be for the best if you returned the book to the Book Bank. All you would have to do then is banish the image of the cover from your brain.

Oh, the cover... What a work of art, that was. A man and a woman, holding onto each other for dear life, occupy most of the cover. The woman had such long hair that it's honestly a miracle it doesn't get stepped on. And the man, as usual, is made of muscle on top of additional muscle. And shirtless... for _some_ reason.

Now, with that in mind, you had expected something set in a fantasy world. But, no, it was set in real life?

It was... repellent.

“The main character...” You choose her. She would have to do, for now. You motion for Marco to lean forward with a finger. His curious eyes bounce between you and the digit. Slowly, he does as you ask.

With a few furtive glances around the cafe, you whisper, “...she's a total _bitch_.”

Marco would have choked if he'd been caught _completely_ off guard. He knew you were going to say _something_ , but a swear? Had you ever uttered a curse around him?

Instead of coughing up a storm, he exhales a quiet yet massively entertained chortle, wondering what this _book_ had done to make you like this. It was as if it had insulted your entire family, your dog, and _then_ some.

You're not quite done, though. “She _is_ , Marco! She- God, if you _read_ the book, you'd understand what I'm talking about.”

With that, you straighten, checking the area for danger – that being furious parents intent on avenging their children's precious ears. When you spot none, you clear your throat _again_ and keep talking.

You remind him of Haruta.

“She's manipulative and so, _so_ mean to the poor guy.” You scoff, crossing your arms with a huff, similar to that of a youngster. The worst part was, she knew what she was doing. That really rubbed you the wrong way. “It's unbelievable. And you know that trope where _Ace went and fell asleep in the kitchen? Remember Thatch's scream, Marco?”_

“ _Tell me you heard it, Marco!”_

“ _Whatcha up to, Marco?”_

“ _Where are you going, Marco?”_

“ _Will we see each other again, Marco?”_

“ _Marco?”_

“Hey, Marco...?” He's been staring at the table for at least thirty seconds. You lower your head, entering his line of vision, and send him a tiny smile. “Are you okay?

Marco blinks.

“Of course.”

He returns your smile with one of his own.

(x)

“I had a lot of fun,” You say happily as you exit the building, waving the waitresses a last farewell. Marco nods, squinting at the sky as he buttons up his coat.

“I did, as well,” Marco assures you before you can ask. The joy that illuminates your visage at his words is endearing. “Thank you for today.”

“Oh, _pshhh_...” You wave not only your hand, but your entire arm as you make that noise. You don't notice, but you almost hit him on the shoulder. He dodges without even thinking about it. “I should be the one thanking you! You endured my ranting like a true champ, back there.”

Marco agrees, putting his hands in his pockets and walking along the sidewalk. You follow him, your shoes tapping rhythmically against the concrete. The street lamps come alive around you, illuminating your path.

“That late, already?” You gasp, checking the time. Wow. _And that cold._ Why couldn't nature make up her mind? “You probably have to get home, now, huh?”

“I...”

You ignore the twenty notifications from different apps, your gaze finding Marco's profile.

This is the closest you've been to him. You're so close you can feel the warmth radiate from his body.

Sure, back there, in the booth... you _were_ pretty close, but you made sure to maintain your distance in case he was uncomfortable with anything.

Now?

...he looks a bit tired.

Then again, Marco's neutral expression appeared rather sleepy. That was something you finally took note of in the cafe when Parker texted you. Marco, while looking out the window, looked sleepy.

It was rather funny... _and_ kinda cute.

...was he tired when you met up? Or did _you_ do that?

“I should.” He turns to you, feeling his haki tingling in the back of his neck. You were so focused on your thoughts that you'd fallen a little behind. You catch up to him with ease, grateful for his leisurely pace.

“Oh, okay!” You reply, mildly saddened by this turn of events. Not for long, though. Soon enough, you begin to recognize the park. Together, you walk through its gates, dirt and rocks crunching under your feet.

It's quiet.

Eerily so.

“...do you live around here, Marco?”

“No,” With his attention on you again, you tilt your head, puzzled. “But you do, correct?"

“I do...” Another second, and you get where he's going with this, exhaling your next words. “You don't have to walk me home, Marco. Honestly.” It's late, he's busy, and you don't want to do that to him.

Clearly, he has other plans, because he doesn't stop. “I want to.”

Well...

“Then I guess I owe you a coffee or something.” You announce, speeding up and spinning around to point a finger at him. You'd be concerned about potential tripping hazards if you didn't know this park like the palm of your hand.

“Sure thing,” Marco says.

With that agreed upon, you return to your place at his side, telling him another story about your life during your university years. Marco listens avidly, adding to your jokes with his own.

The world isn't so quiet, anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)
> 
> Listening to Loreen really helped me out with writing that last bit lmao. 
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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